


watch out for your head, boy

by edbloom



Series: St. Anthony's [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Catholic School, Coming of Age, Dark Academia, M/M, Mystery, Pre-Slash, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24959293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edbloom/pseuds/edbloom
Summary: The clatter of utensils with the whispers and hushed laughter interlaced with the tense atmosphere and the foreboding feeling of being watched is a master formula to keep everyone on their toes, and all Mark can think is honestly, fuck being at St. Anthony’s.—They always said St. Anthony’s was hell on Earth, Mark just didn’t believe them.
Relationships: Huang Ren Jun/Mark Lee
Series: St. Anthony's [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688095
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	watch out for your head, boy

**Author's Note:**

> hey hey!!
> 
> sorry this took too long!! i've got some wips that are due soon so i just wanted to finish those first but here we go!! the first chapter of mark's story in St. Anthony's!!
> 
> i just want to thank yoon!! for beta'ing this!! thank you yooooon!!!!
> 
> anyways, i hope y'all enjoy!!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fuck being head boy, he needs a nap.

**S** tudent council president. Jack of all trades. Captain of the Wolves Basketball team. First chair violin in orchestra. Head of the Altar Servers. Head Boy of the Congregation of St. Anthony’s. Straight As. Valedictorian-in-the-making. All synonyms to the name Mark Lee.

He walks towards the head office with his chin up and his back straight. Students glance and avoid him once they see him walk by. The confidence in his eyes twines with the arrogance in his walk, and it’s a master-class formula to keep students away from him. He wasn’t in the mood for kindness, he had business to work on.

Mark faces the door of the office. He clenches his jaw, straightens his blazer and shirt, and puts on a smile. One of those _say something nice quickly before something bad fucking happens_ smiles, or so Renjun liked to describe them as. _What would he know?_ Mark knocks on the door, _it’s never aimed at him_. 

A _come in_ is yelled after a while, and Mark opens the door. It reveals Father Castro’s secretary, M. Angelique, at her desk in the middle of the room. If Mark hadn’t been here a multitude of times, he knows he would’ve found this set up daunting. A desk in the middle of a room filled with books—thesis, dissertations, encyclopedias. It was a wonderland of knowledge. _It’s a wonderland for the elitist, more like_ . He steps in, confidence edged with ice-cold politeness, and waits. He doesn’t talk, nor does he attempt pleasantries. _Waste of time,_ Renjun would say while he takes a walk with him, _authority never deserves pleasantries._

“Father Castro is here,” M. Angelique says after she finishes her phone call. Her tone is fake— _plastic_. If Jaemin were here, he would’ve gagged at her to her face. “You can come in now.”

“Thank you, Madam Angelique,” he keeps his tone polite and steady. He makes his way to the door to Father Castro’s office with light steps. No squeak or squeals from the floorboards. _Color me impressed_ , he thinks, smugly before knocking on the door. He hears Father Castro yell out a ‘yes?’ , and opens the door slightly. Father Castro nods at him, and only then does he fully step inside the office, bowing a _good afternoon_ to Father Castro before straightening up.

“You called for me, Father?” He asks. Father Castro gestures at one of the chairs in front of his desk, and Mark makes his way to sit.

“Yes, Mr. Lee. This is about the events of last night…” Father Castro trails off, and Mark feels his jaw tense unconsciously.

_Here we go_

* * *

**“W** hat did he say?” Kunhang leans closer—as close as he can with a whole table in front of him. His expression is a mix of worry and curiosity, and Mark feels warm with the concern. He knows he should be more worried—the responsibility for the so-called “Black-Out Prank” falls on him, being one of the few people who has access to the switches. But frankly he is more pissed than worried.

Mark was already asleep when the whole ordeal happened, you see. His dorm room is on the opposite side of the one the accident happened in. It had been a tough day— he’d skipped cleaning up and went straight to bed after the nightly mass. He didn’t wake up for the crash, not the yell—the bang, the flickering lights—not even the scream. Mark didn’t wake up for any of them. Kunhang and Yukhei were witnesses of that—both staying up way too late, immersed in their own workload. He tried explaining the sentiment to Father Castro but he wouldn’t budge. Apparently, what he did—you know, _sleeping—_ was a negligence of his duty as head boy. 

_Fuck_ being head boy, he needs a nap.

“Just, you know, how I should’ve been there to reprimand the students who did it. Something, something, something. My duty of head boy is keeping the students in check. Something, something, something,” he mumbles before shoving a spoonful of rice in his mouth. Kunhang grimaces at him, or at probably what he said, before glaring at the table of priests literally feet away.

“That’s some bullshit, man,” Yukhei says, looking up from his phone. His usual easy going aura intensifying at the mention of Mark being reprimanded. He glances at the clergy table before looking back at him. “You were sleeping. How would you have known something like that would’ve happened?” 

Kunhang nods in the agreement—and you know what, Mark agrees with that too. He’s less pissed with the idea of someone pranking the whole Golgotha building and more pissed with the fact that the administration couldn’t see reason.

“Well, doesn’t matter now,” Mark says, head low, sighing slowly. He plays with his food before shoving a spring roll in his mouth. “They want me to narrow down possible people who could’ve done it.”

“They want you,” Kunhang points at him in confusion, “to figure that out?”

“Yeah,” he waves his chopsticks around in a careless way, “something about it being added to my duties as head boy.”

“Dude, fuck being head boy,” Yukhei says with a grimace.

The clatter of utensils with the whispers and hushed laughter interlaced with the tense atmosphere and the foreboding feeling of being watched is a master formula to keep everyone on their toes, and all Mark can think is _honestly, fuck being at St. Anthony’s_.

* * *

**T** he breeze blows lightly against the trees, they bristle and the leaves rattle. The world seems to start to move in slow motion as the Mexican Petunias slowly wilt and the bees buzz. The daisy they had to pluck for Biology last year has now started to grow back again. It’s just a bud but it’s already looking grown. The garden is tranquil and peaceful, serenity wafts through the air like a quiet hum. 

Mark brings out his violin, he reminds himself to put it back in the music room after free period because he has orchestra after classes. He rolls his shoulder back and relaxes. The grass tickles his exposed ankle; he checks his watch, and he starts tuning his violin. Mark sets his bow on the fret, breathes in, and rests his chin. Silence lulls the garden for a moment before a slide of a bow and a chord is sung out. He breathes through his nose, and continues the piece. It isn’t the one they were going to play in orchestra, Mark doesn’t really need practice—he just needs to unwind. Play the violin with something familiar, something he can play with just muscle memory.

“Hedwig’s Theme? Really?” He hears a rustle behind him. The voice has a snicker interlaced in his words, and lilt in his tone that is so familiar to Mark he could recognize it in his sleep. “Aren’t you a bit too advanced for that? Or are you just being a nerd?” 

“Funny,” Mark whispers, before he glides the bow carefully. Steady hands, steady breaths. The other boy snorts before he hears continuous rustles. Pristine shoes press against the dewy grass before a brown jacket— _not the school blazer_ , Mark notes with a chuckle—is laid gently in front of him. Renjun plops down with a smile in his eyes and a smirk on his lips. His usual messenger bag is carelessly laid on the grass with the flap wide open—notebooks, books, journals, a pencil case; all spilling out. The owner doesn’t care though, Mark thinks with a smile, _too entranced with the music to care_.

“Hey Markie,” Renjun’s voice is soft—as if it’s trying to match the atmosphere of the garden. Mark smiles softly and he continues playing the piece. His fingers add a bit of a vibrato in one note as if to say _hi_ back, and Renjun giggles in a carefree way—in a way that Mark knows he was the only one who got to see. He stares at Renjun as he leans back, closes his eyes, and takes in the quiet.

Silence is abundant in St. Anthony’s. A squeak of a door or a squeal of a floorboard is usually met with a lecture or two—10 minutes taken from your time. As a child, Mark found it annoying and unnecessary. _Why don’t they just change the doors then?_ He would ask with a pout at a teacher. Silence is everywhere in St. Anthony’s, but moments of quiet like this? These types of moments are rare here. Moments of pure peace and serenity, where the air feels static but the breeze blows gently—where you don’t have to put up pretenses or hide behind kindness. Just pure, unadulterated bliss. 

Quiet lulls as Mark transitions from Hedwig’s Theme to something he knows Renjun would like. Something sweet, soft, whimsical, something that lends itself to this moment right here in the garden. He steadies his hands, breathes in, and as seamlessly as possible, he plays his next piece.

The soft tune wafts through the air. He sees Renjun sit up straight. He stares at Mark’s hands as Mark tries not to smile. Renjun closes his eyes—gentle, and soft, just like everything Renjun lets Mark see of him. Mark knows of the barbed wires, of how much Renjun can sting when he wants. Renjun isn’t like that with Mark. Renjun is destructive, yes, but not like a volcanic eruption—something so harsh and unexpected, it leaves everyone in its wake not knowing what to do next—Renjun is disastrous. He walks with a tide following him like a full moon, and anyone he leaves behind is left drowning in the water. Renjun didn’t sting nor did he burn. He’s overwhelming in a sense, havoc slow and gentle. Whether or not you run and save yourself is a choice. Destruction was consensual.

Mark knows Renjun feels the same thing about him. Although, maybe not to that extent. Renjun was always the kinder one between the two of them. Between their ragtag group of friends, Mark and Renjun are the only ones who have been going to St. Anthony’s since kindergarten. They’ve seen the other grow. Mark saw Renjun grow from the tiny boy with the softest of hearts to this boy who learned that the best way to not drown in the glum of this place is to meet it head on with a scowl. Same way Renjun saw Mark grow from what he was then to what he is now. 

The last notes of the song play softly before Mark finishes it with a gentle end. Renjun opens his eyes before grinning at Mark. He had been humming before. He doesn’t know what the glint in Renjun’s eyes meant but Mark hopes it’s a good thing—he hopes it’s the same glint he gets when he stares at Renjun. 

“I love Anastasia,” Renjun whispers. He leans forward slightly, chin on his hand. Mark’s fingers pluck the strings of the violin, idly while Renjun stares as it vibrates. “Did I tell you about how we watched it in the Broadhurst before it closed?” Mark hums a _no_ before shaking his head. “It was fucking amazing, as magical and whimsical as the recording.”

“I wish I could see it again,” Renjun sighs before he looks Mark in the eye. “What class do you have after free period?” Mark doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feeling of his heart practically bursting at the seams when Renjun does that.

“I have Asian Literature,” he says. He rests his violin in his lap as he packs his bow. “I got Father Klena so I’m hoping to stop by Golgotha before class.” Mark gently packs his violin up before taking a glance at Renjun. He was smiling at him. _Cute_.

“Coffee?” He says with a tilt of his head. Mark chuckles under his breath. Renjun makes it very difficult for him to hide any type of fondness he has for him.

“You know it,” Mark says with exaggerated exasperation. Renjun throws his head back and laughs. “Got to go to class prepared.”

“Tell me about it,” Renjun groans, rocking backwards. “Remember? I had him last year for English Literature. It was my first fucking class. I almost fell asleep every morning, no joke.”

“Oh yeah, I definitely believe that.”

“I fucking hated it. I even missed the discussion on Annabelle Lee because I fell asleep….”

Idle chatter on which teachers could bore a submarine filled with navy officers til they fell asleep fill up their time together in the garden as the wind blows and the leaves sway to the quiet tune of the afternoon.

  
  


* * *

**M** ark sighs, placing his flask of coffee on his table before settling in his seat. He brings out his notebook and pen and he leans back into his desk. The pen balances on his fingers as he twirls it around while waiting for their teacher. Father Klena had a reputation for being late to his classes—Jaemin used to always say that if Klena wasn’t a priest, he would be jobless right now; Mark didn’t have it in him to inform Jaemin that Klena actually had a PhD—it was exhausting sometimes, especially when you have him for your last class of the day, but most times, it was just plain annoying. No one likes wasting time.

He’s staring at the blackboard, fingers twirling his pen when he feels it. That inkling. That nagging feeling that someone is looking. Mark doesn’t look. He already knows who it is. Dejun always had a habit of staring at him during class. No matter what class, no matter where he sits, he’ll always feel it. That heat. It was strange at first but now, he just wants him to stop. He doesn’t know what Dejun’s deal is but Mark doesn’t have the patience to entertain him.

The door opens after a few more minutes of idle chatter and laughter. Father Klena walks through the door in his usual button up and slacks—Kunhang used to whisper hotdog with a snicker whenever he walked into class—he places his stack of books on the teacher’s table before clearing his throat. His expression so stone cold—not one muscle in his face moved.

Mark internally groans. _This is going to be a long class_.

* * *

**E** uropean History isn’t his worst class. On the contrary, he actually really likes History and unlike most of his classes, he doesn’t mind madam Maya—which doesn’t happen often; Kunhang’s favorite thing to tease Mark about is his burning spite against every teacher in St. Anthony’s. But at this point during the day, he’s tired. Exhausted, even. He just wants to go back to Golgotha and take a very, very long nap.

“Hey,” he says, knocking on Yukhei’s table. He has his head buried in his arms, clearly either trying to take a nap or blend in with his desk. “How was Calculus?”

Yukhei lets out a muffled groan instead of properly replying. Mark chuckles at him before making his way in front of the class where his assigned seat was. He scrunches his forehead in confusion when he sees a random piece of paper on his desk.

_Huh._

He lays his bag on the floor, leaning it against his chair before he takes a seat. The paper is folded nicely—there were no crinkles or unnecessary folds. It is clean, and the way it’s folded made sure no one could read what it said without opening it. Mark picks it up carefully—he contemplates throwing it or opening it before M. Maya barges in the door, distracting him. He places the piece of paper in his bag before pulling out his textbook. He tries to push away his curiosity to the back of his mind, promising himself to set some time apart later to open the paper .

_Time to focus, Markie_.

* * *

**T** here’s a kink in his neck after orchestra practice. M. Gonzalez was ruthless as always; he’s just grateful he never got into wind instruments as a kid. Mark moves his head around like a chicken as he walks up the path to Golgotha.

Golgotha always had a certain charm to it. The dorm building is archaic in style—bricks and mortar. Mark would compare it to buildings in East Village with its vines and weathered aesthetic. _More like a 60s prison_ , a snicker echoes sounding a lot like Jaemin. He shakes his head with a smile. _Jaemin isn’t wrong_ , Mark thinks as he makes his way inside the building. The french doors open up to a lobby area littered with grandeur—chandeliers, fancy pillars and a grand staircase. He always thought it looked like something out of a storybook.

As a kid, Mark would imagine the dormitories were Miss Peregrine’s Orphanage and he was a superpowered orphan. It was fun. Sometimes he’d manage to rope Renjun with him to play pretend. They’d run around pretending to set things on fire or pretending to be weightless—though little Renjun would always end up whining when they just ended up in the library again. But that was always Mark’s favorite part—sitting in the library surrounded by thousands of books, pretending he wasn’t Mark Lee. Mark Lee was the anxious son of a multi-millionaire businessman who hit his wife and neglected his only child; Minhyung was a boy under Miss Peregrine’s care who had the peculiar ability to fly. He always liked Minhyung better.

Mark groans as his head hits the pillow. He’s exhausted—already on the verge of falling asleep while making his way up the stairs. The bed envelops him with warmth, his foot hangs from the end of the bed frame but he can’t bring himself to care if the blood in his leg isn’t circulating properly. The cool air from the AC brushes against his face, and his eyes start to droop from the weight of mental and physical exhaustion. Mark’s all but ready to fall asleep in his uniform, messenger bag still on him—when Yukhei bursts through the door, causing Mark to sit up abruptly. His nerves, which were a quiet lull for the whole day—thanks to his meds—shoot up, his heart almost stopping in shock.

“Dude!” Mark bites back a curse—his breathing is all too heavy and he knows it’s adrenaline but it feels all too similar to an anxiety attack. “Knock instead, maybe?”

“Get your ass up, Lee,” Yukhei says as he pulls him up to his feet. It’s a mess—Yukhei is obviously in a hurry but Mark is tired and cranky, trying to resist his help. After a couple of minutes of fussing and cussing, Mark is on his feet and Yukhei’s bag is on his bunk bed. 

“It’s almost 6:30, dumbass,” he says with a glance at his watch. Yukhei reaches for his dresser, grabbing a random pair of sweatpants and a shirt. Mark groans in despair and copies what Yukhei does, mourning for his plans of sleeping through dinner and the night mass. Yukhei has always been too nice, too stickler for the rules. He wishes he had the same patience. Mark’s given up on St. Anthony’s a long long time ago. 

_At least, it’s better than going home_.

“I could’ve been planning on skipping for all you know,” Mark says as he tugs on a random sweater on top of his shirt. It always got cold during the night time, but it was especially cold during dinner.Something about the amount of trees surrounding the dining hall and the high altitude of St. Anthony’s in general. Regardless, the older students had taken it upon themselves to start calling the dining hall: the Ninth. Like, the Ninth Circle of Hell from Dante’s Inferno with its ice and blizzards. (Call it a Catholic student obligation to reference Christian Literature in pseudo-naming something—Mark’s personal favorite is SG _aka_ the area behind the horse stables in Equestrian’s Field—named after Sodom and Gomorrah; it’s where _debauched_ activities, as the priests like to call it, occur ie. dates or dick appointments).

“As if I’d let that happen.” Yukhei pulls on his socks before slipping on his Adidas slippers. Huffing, Mark pouts at him before pulling out a cleaner pair of socks from his dresser. Mark knows Yukhei comes from a place of concern and care, and he’s thankful—don’t get Mark wrong, he’s grateful for it but he truly wants nothing more than to sleep the night away. He can feel his bones weigh more by the thousand as the night drags on and his brain is already trailing off to irrelevant things like his sixth grade Geology project on rocks where he had to collect _a shit ton of sedimentary_ —Fuck. Mark shakes his head to ground himself before he realizes Yukhei is still talking. “You need food. I don’t care if you don’t have an appetite—You have to eat.”

“Yes, mom,” Mark can’t help but smile as he teases Yukhei. _He sounds more like a mom than my mother ever did_.

“Now, come on before we’re late. I don’t want to hear those damn priests bitch again. I’ve had enough of Father Castro’s lectures—I swear if I hear his voice one more time today, I _will_ start crying…”

* * *

**K** unhang takes the seat in front of him, still in his uniform. There’s a frown on his lips and his forehead is scrunched in worry; he won’t stop glancing at a table behind Mark. He wants to ask Kunhang what’s wrong but he decides against it. If Kunhang wanted to share, he would—forcing or coercing Kunhang to talk was always the worst choice; his friend had the habit of closing up like a clam when you ask him what’s bugging him. 

Mark’s mind flashes back to that instance when Kunhang wouldn’t stop fidgeting all afternoon and when Yukhei had asked why—Kunhang stopped, said everything was fine, and left their dorm room for the whole evening. They only found out later on—through Jeno, not even Kunhang himself—that his Polo coach had thrown a mallet at him and made him stay back for two more hours. Mark remembers feeling anger bubble up in his throat, and wanting nothing more than to get that coach kicked out of the school grounds for good. Yukhei, on the other hand, wanted to confront Kunhang about it but since they couldn’t snitch on Jeno for telling them, they never said anything—Kunhang never did either. 

(Yukhei and Mark started a petition among the Wolves’ Polo team behind Kunhang’s back, and got that abusive coach out of the team. As a thank you, Kunhang acted like he didn’t know they started the petition and didn’t ask them how they found out about the incident in the first place.)

Mark isn’t very fond of that memory.

“Something is up with Dejun,” Kunhang says, still staring at a table behind Mark. _Ah_.

“Oh yeah, you had a Vision meeting today, right?” Mark asks, absentmindedly picking on his food. 

_Vision_ , the Chinese organization in St. Anthony’s. An underground—not as cool as it sounds, it just means they aren’t accredited by the administration—organization started in 2005 by a group of Chinese students. Sicheng, a Vision alumni Mark managed to befriend, had said it was made to lessen the homesickness they experienced in school. Since the lot of them either visit China annually, or actually grew up in China. Mark actually likes the idea—there’s a Korean one, _Lt. 127,_ but Mark isn’t really part of it; he’s never been to South Korea and he doesn’t really speak Korean. He can’t really feel homesick for a country and culture he never grew up in. It was something he shared in common with Johnny, an alumni who became Mark’s pseudo brother in St. Anthony’s.

“Yeah, it was pretty fun. My translation of Sonnet 18 won our mini competition,” Kunhang says. He takes his eyes off of Dejun for a second to smile at Mark. It’s ridden with pride and Mark can’t help but smile back at him. “But anyway, he’s usually one of the enthusiastic ones during meetings. He actually looks like he’s having fun—”

“Dejun? Fun?”

“Shut up.” Mark doesn’t appreciate the glare but that’s fine. “But today, he just wasn’t with it.” Kunhang shakes his head, the frown back on his face. “He was already late, and once we called the meeting off—he just ran off. Nyoom, you know.”

“Please, don’t ever say nyoom,” Yukhei says as he takes the seat beside Kunhang. “Also, I don’t understand how, even after all these years with the exact same number of students, they still run out of food on the menu.”

“Hey, where were you for the Vision meeting?” Kunhang asks, ignoring Yukhei’s nightly dinner rant. Mark chuckles beneath his breath before focusing back on his food.

“Coach called for a soccer meeting because of the game next week,” He complains, waving his fork around as he talks. “Anyway, shouldn’t the kitchen staff already account for how many students they serve every single day? Like I was really looking forward to eating pasta, but now I have to settle for roast chicken instead.”

“Poor you.” Kunhang is greeted with the middle finger and a scowl when he glances back at Yukhei. There’s a beat of silence before he bursts out laughing, hand flying to his mouth trying to muffle down his laughter. 

“Dude,” Mark hisses, teeth gritted trying not to follow his lead. “Quiet down,” a giggle escapes his lips. He can’t help it. Yukhei presses a finger to his lips trying to calm them down, his eyes are comically wide and _fuck_ —Mark can’t stop giggling now. _The fatigue must be getting to him_.

“I swear to God, if Father Castro comes up to us because of you two, I will beat both of your butts—”

“Boys.” A cold chill runs down Mark’s spine, and suddenly, nothing is funny anymore. Suddenly, the drunk feeling of deliriousness is gone. Sobriety is back—with it is his spine snapping straight, and his eyes staring his plate of food down. The careless laughter of Kunhang in front of him dies down in an instant, his head staring straight ahead. Yukhei’s jaw is clenched, and Mark can feel the way he has his tongue bit.

“I do not think I have to remind you three of our Rule of Silence, do I?” God, Mark actually prefers Father Castro over his _bitch ass_ . _He_ ’s always been a different type of monster.

“No, Father Castelle,” comes their monotonous reply.

“Good.” A heavy hand rests on Mark’s shoulder. He pats him. Once. Twice. Mark wants nothing more than to bite it off. “The three of you are seniors now. Please start acting like it.”

Mark can already smell the cigarette smoke off of Yukhei.

“Yes, Father Castelle.”

Father Castelle pats him once again; it feels condescending. Yukhei’s eyes are on his hand, hostility point blank. Mark can feel how hard Kunhang has his whole body clenched. He focuses on the way the wind is cool even without an AC to distract him from the overwhelming urge to punch the _asshole_ on the face. _Frollo_ leaves after a beat of tense silence. Yukhei stares at his back as he makes his way back to the clergies’ table. They all sit there in absolute silence. No clattering of cutlery or shuffling of feet. Nothing. Mark would probably laugh at their faces of pure anger if he didn’t feel it himself.

“So,” Yukhei says after a while. “Purgs, tomorrow?”

Kunhang nods, slightly. 

  
_Please_ , is all Mark can think.

**Author's Note:**

> here's my twitter: [fIowerpecker](https://twitter.com/fIowerpecker)  
> and my cc: [junle ](https://curiouscat.me/junle)


End file.
